


Creative Writing

by CoOkIeDoUgH1830



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoOkIeDoUgH1830/pseuds/CoOkIeDoUgH1830





	Creative Writing

Stepping out into the street, I shivered as a cold gust of wind blew under my shawl and down my back. The street was old, as was the city, and was wet; making it precarious to walk down unless you wanted to break your ankle. Wrapping my crimson wool shawl tighter around by body, I set off down the street toward the church that stood at the end.

On my way to the church, I peered into the closed shops windows seeing items I could only dream of having. I wasn’t paying attention, as I daydreamt whilst walking. Feeling myself come to a sudden stop, I looked up to realise that I had bumped into someone.   
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry I bumped into you, sir,” I rushed out, looking at the man properly; I noticed he had stormy grey-blue eyes and two scars running perpendicular across his face. One across his lips, the other running in between his eyebrows and over the bridge of his nose pale, snow like skin, being marred with ropes of pink flesh that made up the scars.

“No need to apologise, we are only human, we all make mistakes.” The man responded, gesturing forward with the hand that wasn’t holding a thin black cane.

The further down the street we walked the thicker the mist became. By the time we had reached halfway down the street, you couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of you. After nearly tripping on a stone, the man caught me by the elbow and continued to support me even after I had recovered.

At certain places in the street, the man’s grip on my arm tensed until we had passed the people who would look at me with a mix of shock, sadness and worry. The man didn’t show any signs of being something mothers told their children to get them to behave, did he?

Nearing the church, a sense of dread settled in my stomach. Walking into the warmth that the old church retained, surprisingly well, we were met with one thing. . . 

Silence.

Silence and the flickering of the candles the nuns kept lit. Making our way through the church toward where the father sat in the confessions box waiting for lost souls to enter. The man entered first

“Father; I’ve come to confess my sins,”


End file.
